


reach out

by VenatorNoctis



Series: Scourge Eater [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: M/M, Minor Character Death, Obsession, Villain PoV, chapter 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-16 09:55:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14162271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VenatorNoctis/pseuds/VenatorNoctis
Summary: Ardyn wants to see the wayward prince again. Noctis is more cooperative than he expects."See?" the little one says. "Told you he'd be waiting." Isn't that charming? They've been talking about him."With my imperial friends no less," Ardyn says blithely. "But fear not. I'll put in a good word. Come along, then."The prince stares him down with eyes the same glorious ice blue as his magic and says, "No.""No?" Ardyn echoes. He doesn't know how he's holding himself still when all he wants is to maul this boy.





	reach out

**Author's Note:**

> I love Ardyn but/and he's a very bad man.

It's almost relaxing to drag the commander away from the prince and his plucky band. Frustration isn't truly something one can displace onto others, but with enough practice and enough spitefulness, one can use others' frustration as a diversion from one's own. Practice and spitefulness are both things Ardyn has quite a lot of.

Ravus is still fuming, something tiresome about neither the prince nor his retinue being worthy, when Ardyn takes his leave. Perhaps it's true. Perhaps Noctis isn't worthy. But who is Ardyn to hold that against him? After all, he wasn't either. Familiar bitterness rises up sludgy and thick in his throat, his constant companion, the... not comfort, no; comfort isn't _for_ something like him, is it? But distraction, perhaps. Something to focus on other than the way it felt to see Noctis again.

He wanted to go over there. He wanted to touch the boy. _Touch_ is such an inadequate verb. He wanted to open Noctis up and bury himself inside. He wanted to _peel open the boy's body and crawl into the wreckage_.

Ah. His hands are shaking. That's different.

He leaves the base behind and heads out in his car, driving back toward Lestallum. Perhaps the problem is a simple matter of reawakened appetites. It had been decades, at least, since the last time he indulged like that. (Has he ever indulged like _that_? Truly?)

Lestallum is terrible. He hates the place at the best of times, its enthusiastic optimism, the certainty that the power they produce can keep people safe, the crush of crowds always nearly ready to break out into a festival, the rich scents of spices wafting from restaurants and market stalls. The vivid tapestry of human life: thriving, celebrating, delighting in the world their gods have given them. It makes him physically ill, the thing writhing inside him revolted by all this uncorrupted satisfaction.

Tonight is worse than usual. The sun is going down when he arrives in the city, and it's time for shifts to change at the factory, handsome women thronging the streets as they laugh and trade stories. The food the street vendors sell is reminding him what hunger was like, enough that he buys a kebab from one of them. Nothing about it is satisfying and he throws it out after two bites, but even wanting it was unsettling enough. He should raze this city to the ground when his plan comes to fruition.

That's getting ahead of himself, isn't it? He's here to clear his head, to scratch an inconvenient itch. Ardyn picks a likely-looking bar, orders a glass of something tart, and starts trying to pick out someone with whom to begin his experiment.

By midnight or thereabouts, he's gone through the motions with a factory worker looking to blow off steam and a hunter trying to forget a lost friend. Both were excruciatingly mundane. They felt nothing like the experience he's trying to replicate.

As he's striding down the street—still busy at this hour, the daemons held safely at bay—he catches sight of a skinny, dark-haired boy turning a corner up ahead. He's following before he even thinks twice. It's a terrible idea and an appalling lapse of self-control, things he tells himself as he closes the distance.

It isn't the prince, of course. Ardyn's hand lands on the boy's thin shoulder and he looks back in alarm, entirely ordinary and not at all thrumming with light just under his skin.

"My apologies," Ardyn says with a disarming smile. "I mistook you for someone I know."

"It's fine." The boy shrugs. Ardyn doesn't remove his hand. "Happens sometimes."

"It does." He can see the boy sizing him up, trying to decide what to think of him. "If you aren't on the way to any pressing appointments, might I buy you a drink? Perhaps you could become someone I know after all."

"...Sure," the boy says. "Lead the way."

It takes two drinks and half an hour of utterly banal conversation before Ardyn is tracing the veins in the back of the boy's hand and saying, "I have a suite at the Leville that I'd love to share with you, you know."

He suspects it won't do any good. The first two didn't, after all. But maybe it's close enough to what he can't stop thinking of. Maybe he can burn out the impulse with repetition.

The night clerk at the Leville makes a point of not seeing him, a man bringing a partner apparently half his age up to his room in the middle of his night. Discretion is such a valuable quality in hospitality staff.

The boy's mouth tastes like pineapple and rum, and his kisses are timid at first; he has none of the prince's cockiness. With a little coaxing he gets bolder, clinging to Ardyn's shoulders and arching up for more kisses, letting himself be peeled out of his clothes so his bare skin can be caressed and explored.

Ardyn takes him on his hands and knees, the boy's hands white-knuckled in the sheets and his voice raised in the only honest kind of prayer. He's slick and tight and hot and completely ordinary.

When it's over, Ardyn feels no better. If anything the seething hunger caged behind his ribs is _worse_ , tugging at his control more viscerally than it has since the earliest days. He pulls away from the boy and he's baring his teeth, a noise caught in his throat that seems terribly likely to be a howl if he lets it free. He's shaking as he tries to wrestle it down and remain _himself_ , not merely a mindless daemon.

"Are you okay?" the boy asks, reaching out in concern. "You sound like—oh, _Sweet Six_ ," he says, his eyes going panic-wide as he scrambles back.

Ardyn lifts a hand to his mouth and wipes at the wetness he can feel on his lips. His fingertips come away black. "Oops," he says, and he smiles at the boy the way the Scourge wants to.

The boy shakes his head, looking even less like the prince when he's terrified. He takes a deep breath as if he's about to scream and that won't do at all, no matter how discreet the Leville's staff are.

Ardyn pins him and seals their mouths together one more time, letting the corruption pour from his throat and burrow into the unfortunate boy's tissue and spirit alike. By the time he lets go the transformation is already taking hold, twisting limbs and blotching tight-stretched skin. It only takes a few moments. Newly formed wings beat in confusion and dismay at the light in the room, and Ardyn goes to open the door to the balcony.

"Shoo," he says to the garchamicera his evening's entertainment has become. "Go make some friends."

The daemon flees into the night, no doubt in search of a welcoming patch of darkness in the endless electric festival of Lestallum. Ardyn flops on the bed and stares up at the slowly revolving ceiling fan. He really needs a solution to this problem. The Chosen King has arisen and is collecting power. This is no time for distractions.

*

Distraction, unfortunately, has made time for him.

He shouldn't have made that flippant comment about next seeing them across the seas. He's not sure he can wait that long, not when their atrocious tugboat needs, apparently, a complete overhaul before it will be ready for the trip to Altissia. They need _mythril_ in a workable state, of all things.

Well, he can at least help with that a bit, here and there. The blockade preventing access to Steyliff can be lifted. The troops stationed there can be rotated, so the commander is someone he can work with.

He can go there himself to ensure all goes smoothly. It's sensible. It's important that the Chosen King not be thwarted in his quest when there's so much left for him to do. Ardyn is simply making sure all goes as it must. He tells himself this more than once on the drive up to the Vesperpool.

He catches himself _fidgeting_ as he waits on the path the boys will need to take for their approach. That's absurd. Noctis has kept him waiting for two millennia. Surely he can be patient for an afternoon.

The light is reddening and slanting in low across the water by the time they finally arrive, slowing their steps when they see him there. "Gentlemen!" Ardyn says, spreading his hands in welcome as the prince and his diminished entourage come to a halt. "What a surprise."

"See?" the little one says. "Told you he'd be waiting." Isn't that charming? They've been talking about him.

"With my imperial friends no less," Ardyn says blithely. "But fear not. I'll put in a good word. Come along, then."

The prince stares him down with eyes the same glorious ice blue as his magic and says, "No."

"No?" Ardyn echoes. He doesn't know how he's holding himself still when all he wants is to maul this boy.

"We passed a haven a little ways back," the prince says. "We're going back there. We're going to get dinner, and have a good night's sleep, and _then_ we'll come jump through whatever hoops you have lined up for us."

He's going to be reduced to prowling in the dark outside their sanctuary like a common goblin, hoping his quarry will be thoughtless enough to step outside its divine protection. He wants to drag the prince's head back by the hair and savage that sweet unprotected throat.

He says, "By all means, don't let me keep you from your beauty sleep. Wouldn't want you to feel you were anything less than your best for the ordained hoop-jumping."

"Thanks," the prince says, and turns his back on Ardyn like he has no respect and nothing to fear. He's wonderful.

The night is clear and relatively warm and Ardyn does, despite his attempts to pretend otherwise, make his way up the winding road to the haven and its nearby parking spot. The Regalia, as best he can tell in the low light, has recently been repainted a fetching deep purple. He watches the three of them in their evening routine, making food and chatting around the fire as they eat. It's so appallingly human, and yet he knows Noctis can be so much more.

None of the region's petty daemons come close as Ardyn perches on a nearby rock outcropping to wait out the night. Daemons have as much sense as mundane beasts, and are at least as careful around predators. The trio retire to their tent and the fire slowly dies down, turning from the warmth of burning wood to the cool sentry blue of the haven's magic.

The moon is a bare sliver above, casting little light over the landscape, but it has been a very long time since Ardyn needed much light to see. When the front flap of the tent opens, perhaps an hour after the boys retired, he's gratified to see that it is indeed the prince slipping out.

There's nothing regal about relieving oneself off the haven's edge, but we all have our off moments. Ardyn lets the prince have his in peace, waiting until he's on his way back to the tent before saying, "It's lovely out tonight, isn't it?"

Noctis stops, but doesn't startle. He can't be entirely surprised. "How long have you been there?" His voice is pitched low, as though to avoid waking his sweet slumbering friends.

"Would you believe me if I said I was fond of stargazing?" Ardyn asks.

"I don't think I'd believe anything you told me," his dear boy retorts, walking in Ardyn's direction all the same.

Ardyn presses a hand to his chest. _Behold how you wound me._ "Ah, the cruelty of youth. What if I said I was going mad craving the taste of your skin?"

"Okay, that's _one_ thing I might believe." Oh, he does carry himself like a king, doesn't he? Right to the nearest edge of the haven, where he looks out across those few yards separating them as if the dark doesn't bother him either. "Is that what you ran away from last time? Liked it too much?"

"Struck right to the quick!" Ardyn says. He hops down from his rock. "I was entirely overcome, and could scarcely keep body and soul together." He remembers all too clearly the desperate, chaotic half hour after their previous encounter, when he struggled to keep his form and his memories intact as the Scourge rioted. And here he is seeking that out again.

Noctis drops down onto the grass on his side of the road. "That's some of the most first-rate flattery I've ever gotten, I'll give you that," he says as he crosses to where Ardyn is making himself wait. "I bet you want me to believe that's why you're here, huh?"

"I bet there's no chance that would work," Ardyn says as Noctis reaches him.

"None," Noctis agrees. Maybe it's just the moonlight reflecting that makes his eyes seem to shine blue as he reaches up to pull Ardyn down for a kiss.

He tastes like winter, like the harsh light of the Crystal, and then mercifully like a man again, warm and faintly sour with sleep. He's slight in Ardyn's arms but far stronger than his slender frame suggests, and he makes heat spark and shiver along Ardyn's nerves when he bites desperately at Ardyn's lip. It's some small consolation that the boy appears to be just as compelled by their connection as Ardyn is himself.

In more congenial circumstances Ardyn would be stripping his dear prince out of that thin shirt and ragged trousers to rake his nails down the pale skin beneath and score it red. He can picture the way Noctis would arch and hiss under his touch, frantic and helplessly aroused. His own cock aches at the thought; he bites Noctis' tongue and the boy pulls his hair in retaliation and nothing else on the face of Eos can make him _feel_ the way this does.

When Noctis palms his cock through his trousers, it's all Ardyn can do to make his sound of need more human than bestial. "Tell me I can suck you," Noctis murmurs, and despite what he's seeking it's a demand, not an offer.

"Devour me," Ardyn breathes against his lips. "Take everything I have and drink it down."

Noctis moans, both hands working at Ardyn's trousers now, unbuttoning and reaching in to take him in hand. Ardyn takes a step back, pulling Noctis with him, so he can put his back to solid stone; already his knees want to buckle just from the touch of those clever, quick fingers.

The Chosen King kneels for him and Ardyn wants it too much to even gloat.

The first touch of Noctis' lips makes him tremble, the breath caught in his throat as the boy explores his flesh. It's utter self-indulgence that makes him want to describe the approach as worshipful, but surely there can be no better time for self-indulgence than this: with Noctis enjoying him this way, licking the crown of his cock as if to savor the taste.

"More," Ardyn moans, carding his fingers through Noctis' hair. "Lovely boy, show me what you can do."

Noctis looks up at him, eyes flashing bright again for an instant before he opens his mouth wide. His lips and tongue are lush, welcoming delight, enveloping Ardyn's cock in perfect wet heat. For the first few moments all Ardyn can do is lean back against the stone and let the sensation assault him. There is nobody like this. Even the writhing hunger of the Scourge stills, as if it too is captivated. 

Ah, but he can't let his dear boy do all the work, can he? That would be ungracious in the extreme. Ardyn tightens his grip on Noctis' hair to hold him still and thrusts, pushing deep into the warm slickness of his mouth. Noctis gags as Ardyn hits the back of his throat, his teeth grazing Ardyn's shaft, and both of those sensations make Ardyn purr with need.

And Noctis doesn't fight it, fearless beautiful creature that he is. He _lets go_ , surrendering control to Ardyn entirely and inviting hard use. "Perfect, precious boy," Ardyn murmurs. "How has your line come to this?"

He thrusts deep again and this time Noctis _doesn't_ choke, swallowing around him and letting him in. It shouldn't be this easy. Nothing is ever this easy. Nothing except Noctis' lovely mouth, slick and open and sweet. 

There's a sound of cloth shifting, and when Ardyn looks down he can see Noctis' shoulder moving rhythmically as he jerks himself off. He groans, letting that knowledge sink into him, feeling it soak into his flesh like rain into parched earth. The Chosen King craves him, hungry for his pleasure, making wet pleading whimpers around the invasion of his cock. It's too much to bear, too much to resist—Ardyn's body feels energized, _alive_ , all of him bent to the same purpose, every thought and impulse focused on how much he needs to pour himself down Noctis' throat.

Climax scours his nerves, crackling along the dividing line between pleasure and agony as his cock pulses in Noctis' mouth. He tastes snow and storms and he can barely keep himself from crying out as the world spins dizzyingly around him. He lets go of Noctis' hair and the boy pulls back, releasing his cock with one final teasing lick. Ardyn leans back against the stone, gasping for breath and trying to quiet the sparking chaos that fills him.

Noctis licks his lips and looks up at Ardyn with the triumphant smirk of a conqueror. "Worth coming all the way out here?"

"In every respect," Ardyn says. Some small part of him is furious that he isn't even exaggerating. Noctis tucks himself back into his fatigues and starts to button back up. "Looks as though you found it satisfying as well."

It's gratifying to his battered pride to see the defensive glare cross Noctis' face. "Wouldn't want to rely on you when you were so overwhelmed last time."

Terrible, terrible brat. "I'm sure your own inability to wait had nothing to do with it," Ardyn retorts. He's shaking again and the Scourge is unsettled and shifting behind his ribs, thrown off balance, but he doesn't dare retreat so quickly a second time. "After all, you came down here to ask me to fill that lovely mouth."

Noctis rises to his feet and leans in as if he could threaten Ardyn somehow with his presence. "The worst part about all of this," he says, "is when you won't stop talking."

Ardyn laughs. "So endlessly cruel, my prince," he says, and before he can add anything else Noctis is kissing him to make him stop. He can taste the bitterness of his seed on Noctis' tongue but not only that—there is the curdled sourness of the Scourge and the sharp moonlight brightness of Lucian magic, and it makes the hair on his nape stand on end.

He pulls back as soon as it seems unlikely to give offense. "You should return to your dear friends before they wonder what's become of you," he says. "And this old man needs his beauty sleep before tomorrow's hard day of negotiations with the military on your behalf."

"You're actually going to stick around and help with that?" Noctis asks.

"So little trust." Ardyn shakes his head. "I offered you my aid! I intend to make good on that offer."

"Yeah, okay." Noctis takes a step back, out of arm's reach. "We'll come down and check out the ruins tomorrow."

Ardyn bows, broad and sweeping, and doesn't let the vertigo show on his face as he straightens. "I shall await your arrival with joy in my heart."

Noctis huffs in irritation. "Fine. See you."

He turns away, walking back to the safety of the haven without giving Ardyn another glance. Ardyn slips around to the other side of the stone so he can drop the act for a moment. It isn't nearly as bad this time as it was the first time he had the prince—he can still think clearly, could still converse without fearing he would lose control. The Scourge writhes and twists inside him, shot through with fragments of the Crystal's light, and he turns all his attention to calming it, smoothing it down into the patient tool he needs instead of the ravenous violence it would be on its own. 

This could become a problem if he's not careful. Clearly being this close to the Chosen King is disrupting his equilibrium. He can't afford to be thrown off course now, when at long last he's close to achieving the goal that's kept him going all this time. He looks out into the darkness, watching the reflection of a red giant's sword glitter in the black waters of the Vesperpool. He needs to be careful. There are still so many things that need to fall into place before he can succeed.

Finally he feels calm enough to move on. He pushes off his rock and heads down the dirt track toward Steyliff and the encampment there. There will at least be sentries awake, even if the commander has had enough sense to get herself to bed. They can entertain him until the prince is ready to resume the noble quest. Everything will still work out according to plan. He has faith.


End file.
